room.' It had been wrong in the first place to accept his offer. She
valued her independence. Always before she'd paid her own way, or
her fair share. Having a job and a paycheque, there seemed to be no
reason not to.
There was a silence as they looked at each other—a challenge of
wills.
'All right,' Justin said at last. 'I'll make you a deal. I'll pay for our
Christmas expenses and you give me one of your paintings in return.'
She thought about it for a moment. 'Do you actually want one of my
paintings? You said yourself, the price of art is worth it only if you
find it worth it.'
'Why are you so suspicious? I like what I've seen of your work, you
know that. Especially the last two. I'd like very much to have one.'
'All right, then. It's a deal.'
He refilled their glasses with wine. 'I saw Mr Marinozzi before I
came here. He said he's buying your temple picture.'
Anger swelled inside her. 'I told him it wasn't for sale. I don't like the
man. I don't want him to have it.'
'He seems to think he's getting it.'
'He seems to think if he offers me enough money I'll cave in. He said
there's a price for everything.'
'There is.'
'Not for that painting! Not from him, anyway!' The plate slid off her
lap and dropped on the floor, breaking in two. 'Oh damn,' she
muttered, going down on her knees to pick up the pieces. He
followed her into the kitchen where she dumped the broken plate into
the garbage pail.
'Don't let him upset you. He's not worth it.'
'I'm not upset. I'm mad. How long is he staying here, anyway?'
'Two more weeks. You think you'll survive it?' He smiled good-
humouredly.
She sighed, then laughed. 'Oh, I guess so. Shall I make some coffee?'
She was still a little fuzzy-headed from the wine when he stood up to
leave an hour later. It was dark in the house, but she hadn't yet lit the
lamps.
'Thanks again for the cheese,' she said. 'That was one of the nicest
presents I've ever had.'
She thought of. the many presents Waite had given her over the past
two years. Every time he'd had one of his foul moods he came,
penitent, with something else. Large bunches of red roses. Gold
earrings. Huge boxes of imported chocolates. Silk scarves. Crystal
wine glasses. Until in the end she'd wanted to throw them back into
his face. The presents were given to appease his own guilt, a plea to
her not to stop loving him.
Justin had given her the cheese to please her. Not out of guilt, not to
impress her with his generosity or his money. Just to please her.
He stood close to her near the door and the look in his eyes made her
heart flutter uneasily. His hands reached out and slid down the length
of her hair.
'You have beautiful hair,' he said softly. 'I like it when it's loose like
this.' He took a handful and tugged at it gently and she moved a little
closer, keeping her eyes trained on the buttons of his shirt, pale
glimmers in the dark. He let her hair slide through his fingers, putting
his hands on both sides of her face, lifting it to his.
She stood very still, her heart throbbing, and she looked into his eyes
and she knew she wanted him to kiss her. But he did not move, just
looked at her, caressing her with his eyes. The hands at the side of
her face were cool against her .warm skin. She ached to touch him
too—feel his hair and his face and the strong muscles of his back.
Slowly she lifted her arms, sliding them around his back and
flattened her hands against it.
His breathing was as shallow as hers. She noticed it with a strange
excitement. 'Justin,' she whispered, 'please kiss me.'
He bent his head to hers and she closed her eyes and for an agonising
moment she felt nothing. Then his mouth covered hers and fire
leaped up inside her, spreading hot through her limbs. His hands slid
down from her face, down her arms and sides and around her back.
She moved her own around his neck and they clung together as they
kissed.
Her head swam. He was holding her so tightly she couldn't breathe.
She broke away, gasping, stunned by the sudden unleashing of
passion. He stepped back, raking his hand through his hair, breathing
hard. They stared at each other in the darkness, seeing only shapes
and shadows, feeling the electric heat surrounding them.
She couldn't think of what to say. Her knees were shaking and with
her hands she searched for the wall behind her and leaned against it.
'I think I'd better go,' he said at last, opening the door. With one foot
on the top step of the stairs, he looked back at her.
She swallowed hard. 'Go, Justin. Please, go.'
The next morning Linden went back to the temple and worked on the
painting, applying herself with so much concentration that there was
no thought of anything else.
The dragons were giving her trouble, as were the intricate black
Chinese characters on the big gold sign above the door. Although
generally she didn't copy photographically, it seemed important that
at least the characters should have some authenticity. Also, if she
didn't get the strokes right, who knows what blasphemous meaning
they could take on. The smaller characters along the door frame
caused no problem. Just some faint gold smudges would do. Nobody
would be able to read anything in them, at least she hoped not. Better
check it out with a friendly soul, she decided.
When Faisal and his bicycle came again to help her with the transport
of her equipment, she asked him to stop at Mak Long Teh's cart. She
was busy serving a customer, a skinny old man in shirt and sarong.
When he had finished eating his mee and had returned his bowl,
Linden took the painting off the bike and showed it to the woman.
'What do you think, Mak Long Teh?'
A look of surprise passed over the woman's face. 'You are a painter?'
Linden nodded. 'Do you like it?'
Mak Long Teh scrutinised the picture. 'It's very beautiful.' Then she
shook her head and pointed at the church spire. 'I don't think the
church is there.'
'I know. I thought it looked nice. What about the Chinese words? Did
I paint them right?'
Mak Long Teh laughed. 'A little bit.'
'It doesn't say something bad?'
The woman shook her head. 'No, no, it's beautiful.'
'But a little bit funny?' She had the horrible suspicion she wasn't
getting a straight answer. It wouldn't be good manners to say
something negative.
'No, no, it's beautiful.'
They were surrounded by people, young ones and old ones, all
looking and pointing at the picture. An old man's spindly finger
almost touched the canvas, pointing at the church spire. 'It isn't there,'
he said in Malay.
'I know, I know.' Why were they all so interested in the church spire?
She wanted to know about the Chinese characters. She glanced
around the circle of on-lookers, searching for Chinese faces. There
were a number of them. She pointed at the bla
ck characters.
'I am a dumb foreigner,' she said in English, repeating it in her best
Malay. The crowd burst out laughing. 'I don't know Chinese writing,'
she continued. 'You tell me, is this bad?' They all laughed again. She
wasn't sure what the joke was, but they certainly thought it was
funny.
I'm a stand-up comic, she thought. I might as well give up. The
Malay don't know Chinese characters and the Chinese aren't telling.
'It is not bad!' said Mak Long Teh next to her. 'It is beautiful!'
Justin stood in her living room, looking at the painting. She hadn't
seen him in two days and she felt a slight unease. Trying to shrug it
off, she moved next to him and pointed at the sign above the temple
entrance.
'I'm having trouble with the Chinese characters.'
'They look fine to me.'
'You're not Chinese.'
He glanced at her. 'You have a point there.'
She told him what had happened when she'd shown Mak Long Teh
the painting. 'I suppose I should have known I wasn't going to get a
straight answer.' She shrugged. 'I'll just have to hope for the best.'
'Don't worry about it. I was thinking, how about painting in the
mosque minarette on the other side?' His eyes were laughing at her.
'Good idea. And while I'm at it, maybe a Hindu temple as well.'
'Well, why not?'
'You have no artistic sense, do you?' she asked. 'Overkill won't do. I
think I'll just keep it simple.' She smiled. 'Besides, the people would
have a fit. They were already wondering what the church spire was
doing there.'
A bicycle bell rang outside.
'Here's Faisal with my curry buns. How about some coffee or tea?'
'Coffee, thanks.'
Fast feet stomped on the wooden stairs and Faisal appeared in the
open door with a paper package in his hand. His black hair was
ruffled from riding the bike. He wore shorts and a shirt and thongs on
his feet. He was a handsome boy with dark intelligent eyes. He
thanked her politely when she paid him, then rushed down the stairs
in a hurry for his next errand.
'He's quite an entrepreneur, that kid. He helps me carry my easel and
stool around sometimes.'
'Shouldn't he be in school?'
'I asked him. He said it was not necessary. He doesn't like school. He
wants to make money and get rich.'
'Did you inform him of the fact that in order to get rich you need to
make a lot of money, and that to make a lot of money it helps to be
educated?'
'I most certainly did! He said he knows how to read and write and he
knows his maths, and as far as he is concerned that's all that's
necessary.' She paused, frowning. 'And what is this? Are you
accusing me? He's not out of school because of me, you know. I saw
him riding around on his bike for weeks before I even asked him.'
'I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm just wondering why the kid
isn't in school when the law says he should be.'
'Well, ask the law, not me.' She marched off to the kitchen in
righteous indignation.
'Hey!' he called out, following her. 'You wanna pick a fight?'
She looked at him wide-eyed. 'Pick a fight? Me? I never pick a fight.'
From the big container on the counter she ladled water into the kettle
and put it on the gas ring.
'No,' he said blandly, 'you're not the type. Even- tempered, easy-
going . ..'
'Right. Hand me the sugar bowl, will you?'
He gave it to her. 'About tomorrow. I want to leave early. Go to
George Town to spend the day and come back to the hotel in the
evening. How does that suit you?'
'I'd like that.'
'By the way,' he said carefully, as they sat on the verandah drinking
their coffee. 'I have another letter for you.' He took it from his pocket
and tossed it on the table.
Linden put the curry bun down. Her heart was beating nervously as
she picked the envelope up. It was Liz's neat round handwriting. She
put it back down.
'Thanks. I wonder why they can't deliver it here. This is the third time
they've given my mail to you.'
'Life is full of mysteries. Especially in the Far East.'
'Yeah, tell me about it.'
He stood up to go a short time later. He bent over her, kissed her
quickly on the mouth, then straightened up again. 'Don't let that letter
upset you. And if it does, I live right over there.' He thumbed at his
house, then turned and was off.
She ripped open the envelope. There was a Christmas card inside—a
snowy winter scene with children skating on a frozen pond
surrounded by naked trees whose branches stuck up dark and stark
against the grey sky.
There was no news at all, Liz wrote. It was freezing cold and she still
had no man to warm her bed. 'Where are they all?' she asked. 'I am
not ugly, poor, dumb, or neurotic (well, maybe a little, but aren't we
all?). All I want is a man who is also not ugly, poor, dumb or
neurotic (at least not too much).' She was so desperate, she wrote,
that she'd accepted an invitation from a co-worker who sported day-
glo ties and a Watusi hair-do.
It was with some relief that Linden noticed that Liz did not mention
Waite. Maybe he had given up visiting her to squeeze her for
information.
She went into the village to buy some toothpaste and had her dinner
in a small restaurant, sitting outside at a wobbly table on a collapsible
metal chair. A Chinese woman in green flowered polyester pyjamas
and wooden sandals took her order of fried rice and chicken satay.
Her sandals went clip-clop on the stones as she retreated to the
kitchen.
An Indian girl brought her the food. She was very dark with long
black hair in a braid down her back, just like her own. The girl wore
a sarong and a tunic with long sleeves.
Linden slid the satay from the wooden skewers with her fork. The
plate had a border of pink roses and was heaped high with rice. A lot
of food for very little money, more than she could possibly eat. She
looked around as she ate, taking in the busy street scene. It was dark
and kerosene lamps burned everywhere. Shops were open doing
business. People were laughing and talking, and children were still
playing in the streets. Somewhere a radio played loudly, emitting
Malay pop songs.
'Good evening.'
Julio Marinozzi. All dressed up in Givenchy shirt and expensive-
looking pants that nonetheless did not hide his pot belly. She looked
at the man with dread. Oh, no, she thought. I don't need him now. He
ruins my appetite.
'Good evening,' she said coolly.
'Eating alone?'
'Yes.'
'Do you mind if I join you?'
Yes, I do, she thought, but good manners got the best of her. 'Please
do.' She hoped he'd fall through the chair. Which, of course, he
didn't.
'I stopped by your house,' he said, 'but you were not there. But I had
not expected to find you here.'
'Why not?' She took a forkful of rice and brought it to her mouth.
'A lady alone at
night?' he asked silkily.
It took a moment to chew and swallow her food.
'It's only seven o'clock. And this isn't Rome. Or Sydney, or New
York, for that matter. I'm perfectly safe here.' As long you and your
sickening smile stay away from me, she added silently.
The woman in the pyjama outfit clip-clopped to the table. Julio
Marinozzi ordered a cup of tea. When the Indian girl brought it to the
table he gave her a lascivious look and Linden nearly kicked him
under the table. Instead she applied herself with more fervour to her
meal, hoping to finish it before he could drink his tea.
'Have you finished the painting?' he asked pleasantly.
She shook her head. 'Not yet,' she said after she had swallowed.
'I should like to see it again, if you don't mind.'
'There's no point, Mr Marinozzi.'
'Please call me Julio.' His voice dripped seduction. Under the table
she felt his hand on her knee. She moved sideways, out of his reach.
'Oh, I couldn't!' she said with exaggerated surprise. 'It is so
disrespectful! I mean, you're as old as my father!'
The smile stayed fixed on his face. .'What is 'age among friends?'
Friends. Oh, God. She put more rice in her mouth. It had lost all its
taste and was dry as sand. She'd better stop eating before she choked
to death. Her bill was on the table. She took the amount from her
shirt pocket, put it on top of the slip of paper and pushed her chair
back.
'I have to go now. Good evening, Mr Marinozzi.'
'One moment please, Miss Mitchell.' He reached in his pocket, put
some coins on the table and stood up. 'Let me escort you home.'
Linden moaned inwardly. 'It's not necessary. Please finish your tea.'
It was useless, of course, Mr Seductiano wasn't interested in tea.
They walked along the busy shopping street towards the wharf, then
left. It was obvious he intended to take the short cut along the beach,
but she determinedly turned into the village street that led into the
general direction of her house. It was a roundabout way, quite a bit
longer, but at least there were houses and people.
He put his hand on her shoulder. She stopped, shrugging the hand
off.
'Mr Marinozzi, please do not touch me.'
He feigned surprise. 'I was only trying to be friendly. Please do not
be offended!'
Without answering she kept on walking, swinging the little plastic
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